


Set your souls alight

by blackkat



Series: Stupid MadaTobi AUs [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Fluff, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madara has never covered his soul-mark. This is his rebellion, his defiance. There is no time in their world for soulmates and sentimental nonsense, but Madara is his father’s heir, a genius, a soldier at the age of thirteen, and he bares his wrist proudly. Across the blue-violet veins, stark crimson against his pale skin, is the name <i>Tobirama</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set your souls alight

**Author's Note:**

> For the soulmate prompt that someone dropped in my lap (ILU, YOU HORRIBLE PERSON YOU), wherein I prove just how much of a lack of imagination I am cursed with and yet get super-wordy. Oops. 
> 
>  
> 
> And to everyone who now ships this, I would apologize for dragging you down into rare-pair hell, but, uh, I'm actually super happy to have company in my trashcan and don’t regret it at all. *hearts*

To be born with a blank wrist is a sign of strength in their world. It means an empty heart, a heart prepared to do its duty regardless of circumstances. Means a soldier willing to die for the clan, as they should, rather holding one person above all.

In this, at least, Hashirama is no disappointment to their father.

It’s Tobirama who’s born with a smear like ink across his pulse-point, and the knowledge that his soul has been crafted to fit another’s.

The words clear as he ages, shifting from a blur into lines and letters. The kanji is large, bold, written with a proud and unhesitating hand. Many, many times Tobirama sits up at night to trace each stroke by the shifting light of the moon, trying to imagine the person that wrote it. Strong, he thinks. Aggressive. Not scared and scraping and…

Speculation, he chides himself. He shouldn’t think on it. Their father has made it quite clear that he is to ignore it, disregard it. Tobirama is a shinobi first, not a partner. He is the second heir, their father’s favored son, and this is the only dark mark on his record of achievements.

It means he has a heart, and that will never do.

But Tobirama is not a mindless pawn. He’s not a little automaton, moving to the clan’s will. He is a brother, an inventor, a boy. He is someone’s soulmate, and the thought of it sends a confusing rush of feelings through him. There's wonder and awe and a bit of fear, a touch of trepidation mixed up with interest, because soul-marks are rare. Ones that last without fading, without one partner dying, are rarer still, and Tobirama can't help but want to know who out in the wide, blood-soaked world suits him perfectly.

He covers his wrist as soon as the letters start coming clear. Grey cloth hides it completely, keeps it from the world’s eyes, from their father’s, and Hashirama makes him a bracelet of wide wooden beads, beautifully carved, to wear over the cloth. It’s a silly thing to waste his Mokuton on, but when he presses them into Tobirama’s hand he’s smiling.

“Isn’t it exciting?” he asks a little wistfully, catching Tobirama’s wrist in his strong fingers. He doesn’t try to move the wrapping, though if there were anyone in the world Tobirama would show it would be his brother. “There's someone out there that’s meant for you.”

Tobirama isn’t about to admit that it is, if only a little. He tugs his hand away, busies himself with knotting the leather cord tightly enough to keep both the wrap and the bracelet from moving. “I've never thought about it,” he lies.

But—

But what does that mean, really?

Tobirama has considered this before, because he knows of only one soulmate pair among the Senju, and they're rarely spoken of. Rarely spoken _to_ , because they're soulmates. It’s unquestioned that they’d put each other’s wellbeing before that of the clan, and the Senju are at war. They can't afford such sentiment, such weakness.

(He sees them once, in the market. Two women, smiling at each other as they pick out fruit, hands just ever so lightly brushing. There’s an ease about them, a simple happiness that Tobirama has never encountered before, and he finds himself frozen in the crowd, unable to look away.

Something stirs in his chest, whispers up from deep inside him, and Tobirama thinks, _I could have that? Someday, maybe?_ )

Does having a soulmate mean there is someone out there who will agree with him on everything, who has all the same opinions and interests? Because that sounds…boring. Peaceful, but of no interest whatsoever. Tobirama is a stubborn, argumentative person, and he _likes_ butting heads once in a while. He enjoys conflict, likes passion, and if there's none of that with a soulmate, he thinks the whole thing overrated.

Or…

Or maybe is it a little different? _Divine complement,_ Tobirama has heard one of the elders say, her eyes on Tobirama’s covered wrist. Her tone was sad, a little, and she wore thick bangles to hide the faded grey-white lettering on her skin. He’s never asked her what she meant, but there are books that mention it in passing, and he thinks he can understand even without them. A perfect match, like a broken piece that fits another exactly. Two things that are whole apart, but…better, maybe, when united.

It’s heresy, thinking like this. Idiocy, when his father so clearly expects him to ignore the name on his skin until it fades, as it likely will. But—

But Tobirama sits on his bed in the moonlight, wrist bared like a small bit of rebellion, and reads the characters inked there again and again.

Madara, he thinks, and presses his fingers over the mark.

They say you can feel your soulmate’s pulse echoing yours, if you concentrate hard enough.

In the darkness, Tobirama closes his eyes, focuses, and thinks he can maybe feel it fluttering beneath his fingertips, just half a beat off his own.

 

 

Madara has never covered his soul-mark.

This is his rebellion, his defiance. There is no time in their world for soulmates and sentimental nonsense, but Madara is his father’s heir, a genius, a soldier at the age of thirteen, and he bares his wrist proudly. Across the blue-violet veins, stark crimson against his pale skin, is the name _Tobirama_.

Madara already knows that he will love his soulmate as much as he does his little brother.

It’s simple, straightforward. This person was meant for him. They were crafted by some higher power to match each other as no one else will. In all of existence, in all of the world, there is no one living who could possibly be a better choice for Madara than the one whose name he bears.

He speaks logic, wields it like the weapon he can make it be. _The only way to survive is to convince our enemies to join us_. That too is simple, and can only benefit them. He says it to Izuna, his father, his uncles and aunts and cousins. The name on his wrist isn’t an Uchiha name, so it must be from another clan. And given how many enemies the Uchiha have, odds are good that this Tobirama is someone that Madara will have to face on the battlefield unless things change.

The thought is a terrifying one, and the first time Madara has it he hides in the woods for hours, wandering aimlessly as his thoughts spin. It makes him think of striking down some faceless shinobi, watching blood spray and a body fall only to feel his wrist burn. Makes him think of blood on his skin as the red lettering fades to silvery scars and is gone forever.

Soulmates mean emotion, and emotion is weakness. Emotion is vulnerability when a shinobi should guard themselves and never leave an opening. But a soulmate is also family, and the Uchiha hold nothing so dear as those they love. It’s guaranteed that you’ll love your soulmate, though some bonds stay platonic and some are romantic. The name on his wrist means that somehow, somewhere, there is another person who will be everything he ever needs or wants, who will make him happier than anyone else can.

“Who do you think it is?” Izuna asks, sprawled out on his stomach on Madara's futon. He has Madara's wrist in his hands, and is studying the name there with interest.

Madara studies it too, as he does so frequently. The strokes of each kanji are precise but almost impatient, as if written in the beginnings of a temper. The final character of the name is perfect, unembellished, but the other—扉, tobira—is different. It’s…warmer, somehow, and Madara likes the thought. It’s a rather strange name, but it speaks of advancement, progress.

Maybe Madara's dreams of peace aren’t so far-fetched, if his soulmate believes in them as well.

“I don’t know,” he answers, brushing his thumb across the characters. “But…they're going to be _amazing_.”

Izuna grins, turning his attention to his own bare wrist. “Do you think father will listen to you? That he’ll try to change things?”

He’ll put on a good show of it, Madara thinks a little cynically. It’s been decades since a person with a soul-mark was born to the Uchiha, and it’s a grand thing, even if it doesn’t suit their existence as shinobi. There will be pressure on Tajima to give Madara freedom to find his soulmate, and that can't be done while they're at war with every nearby clan.

Even so, their father is set in his ways. He’s a warrior who knows little else, a leader and a general and a man who sees threats at every turn, and Madara has no doubt that though some effort will be made, it will be token at best.

No. If Madara wants to find his soulmate, he’s going to have to do it himself.

“Maybe,” he says noncommittally. “But we’ll meet someday. I wouldn’t have this mark otherwise.”

It’s true. All people with matching soul-marks meet, no matter what. Maybe it’s the gods intervening, or maybe it’s fate, but there's never been a case of soulmates _failing_ to meet, and Madara certainly doesn’t intend to be the first.

Barely a month after that conversation, he meets a boy moping on the riverbank, a boy with dark hair and wise eyes and the temperament of a kicked puppy, both wrists uncovered but bare. Madara…likes him. Mostly. Though he’d probably never admit it out loud.

It takes six meetings for Hashirama to notice the name inked into Madara's skin, and when he does, he’s so surprised that he trips and falls right into the river.

“ _Tobirama_?” he splutters as he surfaces. “You're—you have a soulmate named _Tobirama_?”

A little mystified—partly that it’s taken the idiot this long to notice, since it’s not like he hid the mark—Madara plants his hands on his hips and glares. “So?” he demands, because while the Uchiha are warily accepting of soulmates he knows other shinobi clans aren’t nearly so open-minded.

Hashirama hauls himself out of the water, quickly wrings out his hakama, and drops to his knees in the sand at the edge. “Here,” he says urgently, beckoning Madara over. “Look. This is how you write my name.”

The last character is the same. When Madara lifts his eyes, confused, Hashirama says quietly, “It’s a family thing. Every man in my family has that character at the end of their name.”

Madara's breath catches in his throat. “You—you _know_ him?” he demands, and Hashirama beams at him with the largest damn smile Madara has ever seen.

“He’s my little brother,” he admits. “He hasn’t shown me his marking, but—his name is Tobirama.”

Surely, surely there can't be two people with a name that strange. Madara lunges forward, grabbing Hashirama’s arm, and demands, “Bring him here! Introduce us! You have to!”

Hashirama smiles and clasps his hand, expression warm and understanding. “I will,” he says with certainty. “I will, Madara, I promise. Tomorrow? Our father’s gone, so we should be able to sneak away.”

Madara doesn’t care if they have to turn themselves into rabbits and hop all the way here. He just—

It’s hope, he realizes. This is something to fight for, a reason to be strong. This is someone perfect for him, _meant_ for him, his perfect complement in every way. Peace will let them be together, and that’s reason enough to speak his mind when his elders glare at him for speaking against the constant fighting. Because if they can have peace, he and those he loves best can be happy. If they can have peace, Madara can finally meet the person he’s destined to love.

Love is no small thing for an Uchiha. It’s a flood, a fire, a landslide. It’s the sun and the stars and the eternity of the moon, ever-changing but ever-present. To have that at his fingertips, to have it just beyond his reach, to know that at any second his soul-mark could shimmer and fade into nothing more than a scar, taking with it Madara's greatest chance at happiness—

He can't risk it.

Oh, there's no doubt that they're both shinobi. There's no doubt that their lives will be dangerous, fraught. But Madara is strong, and can only get stronger.

For Tobirama, he will. There's not a single ounce of doubt within him.

This is the path to peace, for himself, for his soulmate, for everyone. There's not a single world among all those possible where Madara doesn’t take it.

 

 

Tobirama is in the forest when Hashirama finds him, sword in hand, breathless because it’s been far too long since he paused. Their father sneered at him again, eyes on his wrist, and mentioned Itama in the same breath. Tobirama’s temper is a quick thing, easily roused, but he can usually control it. He can usually tamp it down and fix his face to blankness, accept whatever venom drips from their father’s lips even when it’s directed at Hashirama, who for all his foolishness Tobirama already knows will be the greatest shinobi of their age.

Usually. Usually.

But Itama’s grave is only a few weeks old. His little brother is _dead_ , and this morning Tobirama dreamed that his wrist burned and ached and when he looked down the bold, strong kanji dripped from his skin like blood to leave silvery scars behind. He’d woken with his heart thundering in his chest, a cry trapped behind his lips, and torn the wrappings from his arm the moment he opened his eyes.

The mark is still there, still dark. Tobirama is weak, weak, _weak_ , but he _does not care_.

Let Butsuma look down on him. Let him sneer. Tobirama wants the peace that Itama quietly longed for, that Hashirama insists so boldly they can have. He wants a world where a smile is not weakness, where emotion is not a death sentence. Where love of one person can be held just as highly as love of the clan.

“What is it, brother?” he asks, ignoring the way his muscles quiver with exhaustion. Wiping the sweat from his face, he sheaths his sword, then turns to meet his brother’s dark eyes.

Hashirama’s expression is solemn, even more so that it would normally be upon finding him like this. He takes a step out of the trees, then another, another, until he’s close enough to reach out and catch both of Tobirama’s hands in his own. Tugging gently, he drops to his knees on the sparse grass, and the look in his eyes is entreating. Bewildered, Tobirama lets his legs fold, settling before Hashirama, and asks curiously, “Brother?”

Looking torn, Hashirama takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair before he looks up again, holding Tobirama’s gaze. “Tobirama,” he says softly. “May I—may I see your wrist?”

Tobirama’s first impulse is to yank his captive hand away and loudly refuse. His second is to bristle and demand why. But—but this is Hashirama, who is a cheerful, exuberant fool, but also very, very aware of just what he is asking. For all the differences between them, no one can read Tobirama quite the way his brother can, and Tobirama knows that no matter how many times he dismisses his soul-mark aloud, Hashirama has likely guessed the truth of his feelings.

And maybe, just a little, Tobirama is tired of denying it. Tired of being the perfect soldier with only one black mark to his name.

He takes a breath, and unclasps the beads Hashirama made him. The worn cloth falls away with barely a tug, and for the first time, Tobirama shows his soul-mark to another.

Hashirama smiles. Brilliantly, warmly, like the sun breaking free of a cloud, he smiles and laughs, and his fingers curl around Tobirama’s marked wrist. He doesn’t touch the mark, because only the one named has the right, but there's a light in his eyes that’s brighter than Tobirama has seen it in years.

“I met him,” he says, lowly, like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Tobirama, he has your name, too.”

Tobirama blinks. “Of course he does,” he says waspishly, automatic after so many years of Hashirama’s ridiculousness. But even as he says it, his mind is racing. Madara. Madara is somewhere close enough that Hashirama encountered him, practically close enough to touch. _Hashirama_ touched him, knowing his brother’s tactile nature. He’s…

Hashirama saw his mark. And since even Hashirama knows better than to ask, that means Tobirama’s soulmate wears his name proudly, openly. He’s not ashamed of the mark or what it means.

It feels like the world shifts beneath him, like everything is set spinning off its axis. Tobirama closes his hand over his brother’s, pressing his fingertips over the mark, and maybe it’s foolishness but he almost thinks he can feel the rapid flutter of Madara's pulse just slightly lagging behind his own. “You…told him?” he rasps, because he has no doubt that Hashirama did.

Indeed, Hashirama smiles at him, slightly sheepish if still enthusiastic, and tugs gently on his hand. “He wants to meet you,” he says. “Father is gone, we can go right now—I know you want to, Tobirama, no matter what everyone else says.” Dark eyes catch and hold his own, suddenly impossibly serious, and Hashirama squeezes his fingers. “Please,” he murmurs, low and intent. “Please, Tobirama, just this once—do what _you_ want.”

Tobirama’s breath catches, and he pulls his hands away, reaching up to rub at his face. It’s not that he thought Hashirama was aware that he was doing all he could to draw their father’s attention, but…he’d hoped. For both their sakes, he’d very much hoped.

There's very little in him that’s capable of saying no to Hashirama when he looks like that, though, so Tobirama sighs, drops his hand into his brother’s, and hangs on. He doesn’t say thank you or anything of the sort, but Hashirama beams at him like he has regardless, and leans forward to press a brief, gentle kiss to his brow. Tobirama swallows hard, dropping his head forward, and if it just happens to come to rest on Hashirama’s shoulder, well. Hashirama is in the way, as usual, and Tobirama already knows that nothing he can say will make him move.

 

 

They meet on the shores of a river, two boys at war. Soldiers with hearts, the both of them, and legend says there's no better fit in all the world than the two of them together. They both want peace, and love, and passion, want a future when by rights they should have none.

 _Madara_ , says Tobirama’s wrist.

 _Tobirama_ , says Madara's.

(The meeting ends with shouting on both sides. Madara call his soulmate a know-it-all bastard, and Tobirama promptly tosses his soulmate into the river.

It’s a start, Hashirama thinks exasperatedly, watching them both. It’s a lot of other things, too, but it’s most definitely a start.)


End file.
